Men in Long Coats
by Looselybasedon
Summary: John Watson joins Torchwood.-Chapter three of a one shot in which the author fails to do proper Dr Who /Torchwood alien research and just uses what ever alien race she fancies.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer

Ah the allure of men in long coats. I'm being wicked I know, even heretical in this story but please forgive me, surely men in long coats is a kink whose time has come? I meet this redhead in a book shop once, he gave me a discount on my books **and** he wore a genuine RAF greatcoat, well to cut a long story short - Reader, I married him.

I don't own any of the characters (but I do still have the redhead and his coat)

Men in Long Coats

There was a moment, just a fraction of a moment really when he looked up and saw; a crime scene, a figure standing still amongst the chaos a man with dark hair and a long coat; heard the clearly exasperated shouts of policeman; saw Greg waving his hands as if wrestling with a phantom. And his heart lifted and his lips started to form a name. But it was just a millisecond, a blink, the figure turned, too short, too broad across the shoulders, hair too tidy, and smile too sure, nothing alike at all.

Greg was having a bad day. Any day which started with a murder was of course, a bad day for someone. But specifically it had started to be a bad day for Greg Lestrade when he had arrived looked at the corpse and that little voice at the back of his head had sighed and said one word. And that one doom laden word was-Torchwood. But still the day could have been saved, Torchwood was in itself a bad thing yes, but some of the people he'd meet from Torchwood were more or less, you know, normal -ish. And then there was this one. Captain bloody Jack sodding Harkness . And now here he was; Sally Dovovan giggling like a 14 year old and not doing her job, Anderson steaming mad, not doing his job and Harkness doing who know what, with a deeply unnecessary twinkle in his eyes and Greg trying to hold it all together in some semblance of proper Police Procedure. By rights Greg should be due a break about now, he rolled his eyes to heaven and sent up a silent prayer to just lay off me, ok. And looked down straight into the eyes of the ghost of John Watson. Fuck.

OK so John wasn't really a ghost. But since Sh.. since his suc.. after the events at Barts' hospital, John had gotten on with life and he looked fine. Unless you knew him, unless you could see that something was lacking in his eyes, an absence which told you that some part of Dr John Watson hadn't made it past the funeral. And Lestrade felt guilty, massively guilty, although he didn't have anything to be guilty about – he knew that Sherlock wasn't a fake and always had loudly maintained it. But all the same **it** had happened and now **he** was gone and John was part of the wreckage left behind. So the two men smiled, twisted not real smiles at each other and John pretended not to notice the deep steadying breath Greg Lestrade took before walking over to him. The tall –not Sherlock man- followed him.

'Well, Dr Watson as I live and breathe! What brings you to my crime scene today? 'Greg winched at himself – why was he talking to John like some benevolent but ancient uncle trying to engage with a truculent nephew? He was saved by an unexpected source.

'Torchwood's crime scene I think you'll find, Greg 'said the tall man with a distinct American twang to his accent. Then he added

'Hello there 'He leant over Greg and unsubtly edging him aside with his wide shoulders;' did I hear Greg here, call you a Doctor?'

John reached out to shake the hand offered to him. As their hands met he felt a tingling in his palm, like a series of mild electric shocks and a wave of something like the lightheadedness before you faint, rolled over him. He heard the man hitch his breath as if what ever had hit John was being felt by him too. The two men looked at each other startled. John found himself speaking with out thinking

'You smell great' he said. And then blushed. What the fuck did he say that for? It was true but who the hell says that to a stranger? He stammered

'Sorry that sounds really… I mean sorry, I'm not feeling totally myself at the moment and I …. Sorry. '

John stuttered to a stand still and shrugged. The man seemed unperturbed by his comment, in fact he was smiling broadly and still holding John's hand which John found was fine with him

'I'm sorry 'John calmed himself 'it's just that for a moment, you reminded me of a friend of mine' he explained.

Again the big smile

'Well it's Captain Jack Harkness at your service. Must be a lucky man to call himself a friend of yours. '

'No.' John dropped the hand and his eyes lost their focus for a moment 'no I was the lucky one. Sherlock was... 'Again words seemed to dry up on him.

He meet the blue eyes again and saw a look of understanding and then sympathy, no empathy in the man's eyes. The man leaned in toward him and asked in a lower voice

'John, may I buy you a coffee?'

And John, to his surprise found himself nodding.

What was all that, thought Greg as he watched Jack slide a hand across John's shoulder and lead him away from the crime scene. That was … actually Greg had no idea what that was, unexpected, troubling, disturbing, one of those

and not for the first time today Greg wished Sherlock was here.

xxxxx

'So 'Jack leant back again the vinyl padding of the booth's seat 'Your friend, Sherlock, the handsome one who I remind you of, why isn't he here today

John?'

John smiled briefly at Jack's flirtatious tone. He looked down at the cup in front of him and found himself pointlessly and neatly re-arranging the teaspoon on the saucer. He challenged himself to say the words.

'Sherlock's dead' he said this carefully 'he died about 6 months ago.'

Jack nodded unsurprised, that look in John's eyes could only have been caused by grief, the no hope kind-the real thing.

'Valid excuse then' Jack concurred. John gave a half smile again.

'I still miss him' he admitted

'Of course you do' said Jack 'why shouldn't you?'

John shrugged 'People expect you to move on especially when ...' He paused. 'When the circumstances of his death were so... difficult ...for people.'

'John' Jack leaned forward and touch the shorter man's hand briefly 'Fuck 'em who cares what other people think. He was your friend and what you think matters, not them. I lost someone myself nearly two years ago. I still think about him every day. '

John looked up at the man

'Who was yours'?'

'Ianto 'said Jack 'His name was Ianto' There was an ocean of sadness in his voice and John found himself briefly returning the hand touch. Then he raised his tea cup and dipped it in a subduced toast

'To Ianto and Sherlock then '. Jack touched his coffee mug to John's teacup

'To Sherlock and Ianto' he echoed. He took a sip over his coffee and made a face 'I hope they're drinking better coffee than this where ever they are.'

'Not if Sherlock's making it.' John laughed.

'No? 'queried Jack 'not his forte?'

'God no' said John 'only time he made me a cup of tea he tried to slip a hallucinogenic drug in it '

'Hmm. Kinky' said Jack.

John sniggered.' No just the kind of twatish thing that he did occasionally'

Jack smiled. 'My Ianto made me great coffee every morning. It was just perfect. Only one of us that could get the bloody coffee machine to work.'

'Nice' said John. There was a pause, a surprisingly comfortable one. John thought how good it was to talk about Sherlock to someone, easily and with out having to answer a lot of unanswerable questions .Then he remembered that he had a question for Jack.

'So Jack, you mentioned Torchwood just then. I've never heard the name. Who or what is Torchwood?'

The tall man opposite him gave him a considering look. Whatever judgment he was making of John seemed to end favorably because he leaned forward, smiled broadly and said.

'Well John, you're not going to believe most of this, but I swear it is all true. You could check it out with Greg, but well Torchwood is rather special. It's outside the government, and beyond the police. We track down alien life on Earth and co-opt their technologies for the defense of Earth. Greg's corpse out there is a shape shifter and I've been tracking him since he landed in Cardiff last month.'

Jack paused, sipped his coffee and looked at the man in front of him. He looked, Jack noted, both suspicious and horrified. This was the normal reaction when Jack told anyone about his job but yes, as he suspected there was another emotion in John Watson's eyes too. It was a rarer reaction but Jack had seen it before on the face of Ianto, of Gwen, of Owen, of Susie and of Toshiko, all of his people. It was a look of someone recognizing a truth, of someone hearing the siren call to adventure. It was the look of someone whose life was about to change. John leant forward.

'Tell me more 'he said. So Jack did.

xxxxx

The café owner was trying to closing up for the evening. She sent baleful looks at the two men in the corner. Their heads were together, and their voices low. The taller man waved his arms round a lot and the shorter man laughed a lot. She couldn't decide if there were friends catching up after years apart or lovers on a date. They were however, stopping her from closing at a reasonable time and her feet couldn't take any more. So she called out

'Gents, I'm locking up now'

The fair man startled like he hadn't realized so much time had passed and the American smiled, stretched, stood up and pulled on his massive coat. They walked toward the door. The arm waver stopped so that he could put so much money on the counter top that she would gladly have kept the café open another hour for him. He smiled at her but all his focus was on the shorter man beside him. As she locked the door behind them she heard him say.

'You know John if you ever get bored of London, Cardiff can be a pretty exciting place. I, and Torchwood of course, can always find a use for a good doctor. And it would be good to have someone who can look after himself beside me'

The other man, John presumably, smiled

'Two Captains in one team though Jack' he asked his tone light and teasing 'how will that work?'

'Well I'd be charge' Jack said in a reasonable tone as the two men walked into the darkening street 'but only during work hours – perhaps we could work it out between ourselves after work, maybe take turns as the situation demanded.'

As she switched out the lights, she watched the figures disappear round the corner, two figures walking companionably into the dusk, a shorter figure, solid and steady and a taller one, dark and excitable. Strange how they looked together, she thought, just seemed sort of right somehow.

_The alternative title for this story is Reasons why Sherlock need to get his arse back to Baker Street pronto- I rejected it as a little clumbersome. So what do you think, would John Watson join Torchwood ? _

_How does Mr 'the British Government ' feel about the organization beyond the government ?_

_ How likely is John to attempt to snog Gwen Hooper ?_

_ Was it a terrible mistake to write under the influence of a pack of jelly beans on an empty stomach ? _


	2. Cardiff is not London

**Cardiff is not London (no matter how you film it)**

_So I was going to leave this story as a one shot, it was never supposed to be anything more than that. I've got proper grown up stuff to be doing (er.. cleaning out the fish tank , having a bit of a sit down and watching Prof Brian Cox explaining stuff/pretend I understood it) but then brynchilla wrote me a review (and virtual bribed me) and Rose O Sharon also explained very kindly that I needed to write more on this one. So for you brynchilla and Rose O Sharon, aka Loosely's unwanted muses, this._

Mycroft Holmes had a headache. And when Mycroft Holmes had a headache the rest of the world reached for its pain killers. Briefly Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, frowned and then schooled his face back to its usual unperturbed blankness. He stared at the screen in front of him again. It still read Access Denied – Security Clearance not valid. What remains of the British Empire (which is actually slightly more than commonly assumed, thanks to Mycroft's work) shook in its boots.

John Watson, ex-captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, ex-army doctor, ex-best friend, flat mate and blogger of one Sherlock Holmes, went dark in mid February. It was he found, surprisingly easy to cease to be. He had little to leave really. He would worry about Harry of course. He would miss Mrs. Hudson, but Mike, Molly and Greg he left with little real sorrow. Their friendship had never been easy after the funeral; it just hurt too much to be with them. And then there was Mycroft. Mycroft was hardest to leave, not because of sentiment as such, but because it was hard to slip off of Mycroft's radar. He'd tried several times previously but eventually he'd be walking down the street and realize that the CCTV cameras were tracking him, or the cash machine would print out a receipt for him, telling him his bank balance and that it had been terribly worried about him. He'd explained the problem to Jack (from a disposable, prepaid phone which he had thrown away immediately after) who had laughed and told John not to worry, if John was sure he was ready Torchwood's tech would sort it. John was sure and two days later he received a train ticket to Cardiff and a small yellow smiley faced badge through the post. The neatly written note told him to be at St Pancras in the mid afternoon, go to the toilets, to change his clothes and to attach the enclosed badge to his lapel of his jacket when he was alone.

The badge looked utterly innocuous to John, there was a smear of red below the manic grin which looked faintly sinister, but it was just a here he was as ordered, he'd had to pay 30p to get into these bloody toilets and there was a name for people who lurked around in public loos, so he shrugged and pinned it to his coat as instructed. Nothing happened. John shrugged again and stepped out of the cubical, washed his hands at the sink, looked up briefly to the mirror and … froze. The face looking back at him was not his. He watched the stranger lift a hand and touch a cheek, and felt his hand on his cheek. It still felt like him, but it was without a doubt, not him. John Watson was wearing someone else's face as casually as that. The stranger smiled. Oh yeah, working for Torchwood was going to be a whole new experience.

Cardiff is not London. Cardiff Central, the train station Watson finds himself at is small. John can't miss the three figures waiting for him as he emerges into a cold February evening in Wales. He pauses before they see him, takes some time to look at those waiting for him.

There is Jack, tall, watchful, his big coat wrapped round him, hands thrust deeply in his pockets. He is listening with polite attention to a woman beside him. She is shorter than John and he judges her to be early thirties, recently a mother, the pale smudge of baby vomit on her shoulder is the give way there. She is standing rather closer to Harkness that you'd expect from work colleagues so a very close, long standing relationship then. Her voice, Welsh accent carrying clearly, has a chiding, exasperated tone, which tells John it's not an altogether easy relationship.

John isn't sure that the third in the group is with them to begin with. He slouches against the wall behind them. He's tall, thin and crumpled and wearing even by John' standards, an ugly, padded anorak. He looks like a truculent teenager. He says something in answer to the gesticulating Welsh woman, and the look Jack sends him is unmistakably fond.

In the moment he has to watch them unobserved, John wonders what Sherlock would have made of them. What would Sherlock have been able to observe about them from this causal glance? But of course John will never know, Sherlock is gone and that beautiful, brilliant, irritating brain of his is dashed against the pavements of London. So here he is in not London, with people not is Torchwood. These are his new people; this is John's new life. He has to look forward now, the past is gone. He steps out of the station, smiles and calls out, Jack turns, waves, and dashes over to hug him. Which is weird. But kind of nice too. And Harkness still smells really good.

The woman is called Gwen Cooper and she's been with Jack, (Jack, not Torchwood, he notes, for 6 years. She'll have known Ianto too, he thinks). She is outwardly friendly but she keeps sliding John looks from the corner of her eyes which speak of suspicion. The teenager, who unfurls in the heat of the pub reveals himself to be not a teenager at all, although still alarmingly young, is called Q. Q is, John is told, a tech genius. This morning he has removed John Watson from every database, past, present and future. The badge using tech taken from the Silence, whoever they are, is Q's invention. In the morning he'll inject John with nanos from the same tech which will keep him blurred from all forms of electronic surveillance. John is to become effectively invisible, like Q himself. John finds himself strangely comfortable around Q. This is strange to John because the man has too much nervous energy and spiky intelligence to be easy company. But there is something endearing about that mad hair and those bright eyes - something familiar about him. Q isn't the man's real name, and when John asks what Q stands for, Gwen calls out Quirky, whilst Jack suggest Quizzical and Q shrugs his shoulders and offers quiet.

And then there is Captain Jack Harkness himself. Jack is a mystery too. John finds himself torn between wanting to lean into all the warmth, the thereness that Harkness seems to give off and yet the man also radiates a subtle wrongness and John's instincts tell him that getting closer to Jack Harkness without all the information is a dangerous business. But here , in not London, wearing a face not his, John finds himself drinking a second pint of Reverend James as he listens to Gwen tell a story about her wedding day which features alien pregnancy, shape-shifters and a really trying mother in law, and for the first time, in a very long time, he relaxes. Tomorrow will be his first real day as part of Torchwood and he looks forward to it.

"Unexpected rift activity in progress "Q calls out.

"Where to by?" Gwen grabs her coat and a gun as she heads to the door,

Briefly John marvels at the eccentricity of Welsh English, before he is bundled, Jack's hand on his shoulder, toward the exit

"We'll bring you back something nice and explosive" Jack called back to Q. "Have the kettle on." Q only answers with an eloquent twitch of his shoulders as he huddles over the scanners.

"Why do you have to go say that to him, Jack?" Gwen chides." He'll make us all drink some more of that posh tea of his. There's nothing wrong with Glengettie, I told him. If I wanted my tea to taste like it had washing up liquid in it, I'd put washing up liquid in it " She gunned the car into the side street with what John was fairly sure was undue care and attention to public safety.

"Philistine" said Q over the comms link."Earl Grey is the tea which made this country great."

"England maybe," Gwen mutters, "Wales runs on proper tea."

Jack grins into the mirror at John in the back seat .

"So how's your first day going, John?"

John's first Torchwood mission features a Weevil in the lingerie department of John Lewis. The way Jack had explained it, John had thought a weevil was rather like a pigeon, something easily confused, prone to getting itself in a agitated state when it accidentally found itself trapped in, say, a department store during the Spring Sales. And to an extent, that impression was more or less correct, if the pigeon when panicked grew to a 6 foot, sharply fanged, insanely strong monster which absolutely reeked and resisted all attempts to gently shoo it towards a safe exit. And required tranquilizing so yes, Weevils were exactly like pigeons.

Lunchtime sees John touring the Torchwood vaults in the company of a quietly over excited Q. The man veered between a chiding tone, "Don't touch that John" to a geek wanting to show off the best toys in his collection. John wasn't certain how much he actually learnt about the tech but he discovered that Q was relatively new to Torchwood himself and happy to share his general impressions of their colleagues and the job.

In the afternoon John gets acquainted with his medical bay and the records system. Gwen and Q seem to have been exposed to an impressive number of previously unknown viruses and diseases and John made a point of scheduling appointments to thoroughly check both over. He really needs to get a good handle on normal for these two as soon as possible because he was pretty sure normal normal didn't even begin to apply here. Jack's records were suspiciously clean and that would have to be investigated too. Although he doesn't realize, John Watson started to hum under his breath as he completes his stock taking, his movements round the lab have started to regain an effective gracefulness, a sense of purpose.

In a street in Tunisia, a man with closely cropped blond hair and predator's eyes notes the reappearance of a tall thin man, with pale skin and too much cheek bone. They are following the same mark, an assassin who is enjoying a mint tea at a street café. The thin man does not appear to be carrying a weapon. Lazily he peers at the watcher's face through his rifle's viewfinder and finds himself observed back. He is despite himself, impressed, not many could make him. He wonders who the man works for, but he isn't the target so when the pale man inclines his head in greeting, the blond man merely twitches him a half smile without any warmth. There is a voice in the blond man's ear piece, giving him details of his exit plan. The voice isn't the one he wants to hear and the knowledge that he's even noticed that, makes the blond man shift slightly as he lies against the tiles, but he doesn't hesitate to take his shot. As he drops silently from the roof into the suddenly panicked crowd he takes a moment to notice that the watcher has slipped away too.

In a street in Tunisia, he watches a man with ice blue eyes calmly kill another man. It's not quite the end he imagined for the tea drinker but the result is the same. He loses himself in the crowd. One more, he tells himself, one more. Despite himself he glances behind to catch the eye of the figure that should be there and whose absence is a dull ache. One more, he tells himself again, and then home, he promises the void that follows him.

In a surprisingly small office in Whitehall Mycroft Holmes discovers that even he can't know everything and his headache becomes acute. It is possible that Earth judders on its axis.

_Well see that's what you get if you push it – a perfectly innocent Torchwood, Sherlock crossover acquires added Bond and menace. I suspect this isn't quite what you were looking for but stick with me I'll update with chapter 3 of this one shot soon. Today's chapter was bought to you by G&B White Chocolate and the letter Q. My thanks to my man in a long coat for beta duties._


	3. Chapter 3

**Waiting for the Mothership**

**Chapter 3 **

Mycroft's department doesn't have a name- nothing as obvious as MI5 or MI6. It comes under the Home Office, but that was only because it had to appear somewhere. Mycroft would love to see the Home Secretary try to tell him what to do. There were other departments with a similar rather nebulous nature but it had never occurred to Mycroft that any of these might in some way supersede the work of his own. No –one has ever been willing to raise serious objections to his using of other departments' information, technology, budgets or personnel. UNIT could be rather grumpy about it and well there had been that business with the young quartermaster of MI6, but Mycroft had dealt with it and the problem and quartermaster had vanished. So four weeks ago when Mycroft had tried to access a database for a little known department based in Cardiff of all places, he was surprised to be (figuratively speaking) smacked rudely in the face. And it had continued to happen. Polite words in the right ears had come to no good then slightly sharper words in those same ears still didn't get results. Some rather nifty work from his tech people had resulted in a virus infecting every one of their networked computers with a looped video of a young man singing a very banal love song. The chorus of which (a series of vows in which the man promises to never give the object of his affection up) Mycroft found himself, to his undying shame humming at the heads of Department meeting later than day. Now Mycroft finds himself at his desk, staring blankly once more at the Access Denied screen, and wondering what the hell is happening to the well ordered structure of his world.

"So let me get this right," John said, "Elvis as in Elvis Presley was a syren? An Alien who lives off of the sexual energy caused in response to its singing?"

Jack nodded. He looked over at him. John was looking better now, more focused than the hallow eyed figure who had stumbled from the train a month ago. The two men were sitting at in Harkness's office sharing a Chinese take out. The work areas of the hub were in darkness, and the rest of the team had gone home for the night. Take out together had become a habit almost from the start of John's moving to Cardiff.

"And when his mothership came back you organized the whole sudden death thing as a cover up?"

"Helped organize" Harkness corrected." It was an American led operation. If Torchwood had organized it there wouldn't be all the doubts and conspiracy theories, he'd just be gone."

There was a thoughtful pause.

"Jack?"

"Hmm, yeah?" Jack chased the last prawn at the bottom of the Special Fried Rice with his chop sticks

"Are you taking the piss?"

The last name on the list is proving elusive. He is so tired of searching. He can't remember the last time he slept for longer than two hours at a time, and that never used to be a problem, but now as if he has admitted the need for one thing in his life, all the other things he has denied himself are rushing in. Making him weak and human giving him a heart again. At the back of his mind, is the constant thought, that if I reached out, he'd come. I don't have to do this alone. He would come, be an anchor, and be his armour again. It is not his brother that he thinks about at these times.

Jack is standing very close to him. John can feel the warmth from his body from his shoulder to his hip. It is very distracting. He needs to concentrate. John shakes his head to clear it and thinks I can do this, I'm good at this. From the corner of his eye he can see Gwen scowling slightly and he wonders what is eating her today. Anwen has had colic so maybe just lack of sleep, he'll see if he can help later. Jack is speaking, leaning in close.

"Now this beauty is tech salvaged from the Vogons and she has a bit of a kick to her. The secret is to aim slightly above your target and make the recoil part of your shot. Give her a go."

John loves this part of the job, playing with alien tech especially the weapons. In his civil life John has found this talent, if not unappreciated, then regarded suspiciously as if good with guns automatically means willing to shoot to kill on sight. Even Sherlock tended to regard John affinity with firearms as an interesting anomaly in his character. In Torchwood, John feel both the doctor and the soldier welcomed, Jack particularly is delight to have someone on the team both able and willing to take care of the team and take decisive action. John has the feeling that too often Jack has carried the burden of making unwinnable decisions himself.

John pulls the trigger. The kick-back is indeed a bitch and it sends him stumbling into Jack, who catches him by the arm.

"Told ya" he says.

And John finds himself too close, overwhelmed for a moment, his mouth dry and his eyes are locked into Jack's own. Jack smiles at him and for a moment there John wonders if .. if he just …

"Jacccckkkk !" yells Gwen " I can't find the Deadites boom stick "And Jack lets go of his arm, smiles again and moves over to help Gwen find a mysteriously missing small laser cannon. John goes back to target practice.

On Mycroft's desk is a list. That the list is there as a physical thing, shows how distracted Mycroft is; usually Mycroft prefers to commit no thoughts to paper until he made a decision. The list contains the 50 most pressing questions Mycroft is currently facing. Questions 1 to 20 concern matters of International policy. 21 to 34 local i.e. UK issues, question 35 is concerned with the replacement of Mycroft's personal assistant, 42 ponders the recent deaths and or apprehension of several major players in the criminal underworld, 44 notes the disappearance of one John Watson and 50 asks what the hell Torchwood is. There is an unwritten 51 question and it is the one that has haunted Mycroft for 8 months now. It is the question. The one that really matters, is Mycroft's little brother, Sherlock Holmes somehow, impossibly, still alive? Sentiment, Mycroft thinks to himself and sniffs, and yet, the question remains. The woman on the other side of the desk shifts slightly and Mycroft's attention is drawn back to her He very much hopes she will answer question 35. Her credentials are magnificent. Mycroft smiles in what he images in a charming manner at the young woman in front of him. She smiles back brightly.

"That all seems in order" he allows "So Miss Moneypenny, or if I may, Eve?"

Once more the woman smiles and nodded at him. Mycroft likes an assistant who doesn't waste her words. Anthea could get rather too chatty at times, and was, of course, ultimately a traitor.

"There will be a probationary period of course" He continues "..But." He pauses looks again at the figure seated before him, "well, welcome aboard Eve. I'm sure we are going to work very well together."

Her handshake is reassuring dry and firm and Mycroft is confident he has made an excellent choice here.

In John's lab a coat hangs, it is long dark and smells faintly of dry cleaning chemicals. It is shrouded in a thin plastic cleaning bag. It is not John's coat, far too long and not his style. Gwen and Q wonder at it, when they do so in front of Jack he just shrugs and smiles softly or offers to make coffee. Everyone has their secrets and oddities.

He has been lying in wait for the tiger for five days now. It's too smart this one, seems to see every trap he lays for it and pads itself around them. The man-eater has an eerie reputation in the villages; he's heard them call it the devil-cat. But he's been hunting tigers for years now and no over grown moggy will get the better of him; he just has to wait it out, the hunter thinks. He stretches out a little further and gets comfortable. His confidence that he will kill this creature remains unshaken right up to the moments before he finds himself trapped under the musky body of the animal, its claws tearing into his sides. When he dies , which is not altogether as soon as he should have , his last sight is of the tiger , sitting back on it's hunches , blood on it's muzzle and a vicious smile on it's face.

Sebastion Moran shakes himself and flicks his whiskers forward, black flies are already buzzing round his kill. Well he thinks, that was jolly good fun but really enough play, he has work to do and scores to settle. Moran concentrates and his tiger forms flickers and fades. Moran stands up in his human form. The flies drone on.


	4. 4- He always wanted to be a Pirate

Sebastian Moran had never loved James Moriarty, not in terms a human would understand anyway. He had mainlined the freedom which came from serving him. Moriarty's commitment to the joy of chaos had freed Moran to be something more than nature had designed him to be. The life of your average Nostrovite is one fixated on shapeshifting, hunting, mating, implanting your young in another creature, killing the host and then repeating the process. Very boring, very predicable. When the creature that became Sebastian Moran had staggered though the rift and found himself suddenly in the company of one James Moriarty, it was fair to say a whole new type of life had opened up to him. The desperate circle of necessity had for Moran given way to a conscious decision to be deeply unpleasant for the sheer pleasure of the thing. Moran had changed from an animal of basic needs to a bastard by inclination. And for that Moran felt he owned the memory of Moriarty some small token of appreciation. Killing the irritating detective's live-in -whatever seemed like the perfect memorial. Then Moran would scuttle back through the rift and start again somewhere else. So he waited until the heat died down, amusing himself in his own fashion and then returned to England to look for John Watson. Watson however, had disappeared. Worse than this, the rift , the only way Moran knew off of this cruddy little planet was now under the close control of some Agency called Torchwood. Moran decided to leave the first problem aside for the moment and concentrate on the second issue. This decision was to prove that Lady Luck was no lady after all and on fact a total slut for Sebastian Moran.

Bond hates Q branch almost as much as he hated the medical department. This has not always been the case. Once Bond was happy to wander into Q branch, and arrange himself on the over stuffed leather sofa and remain there for a long afternoon. He would type mission reports, demand tea from passing minions and interrupt Q. Actually interrupting Q was the main point of James' visits to Q branch; there was something deeply invigorating about annoying him. It was nearly as refreshing as going to the gun range and blasting the hell out of something. James Bond was not a man who liked to think about his emotions. He was a highly trained killer in the service of his country, thinking about what he did and why, was really not a great idea. So it took him a while to realize that visits to Q branch had slipped from the occasional urge to mess with his quartermaster equilibrium, to a regular choice to hang around bantering with the man. It took Bond even longer to realize that he actually liked the boy and that somehow Thursday's night vicious scrabble games with him had become the high point of the week. When he did realize this Bond took the only course of action open to him and went on a two week bender with Alec which ended up with Bond waking up in the custody of the Thames River Police charged with Piracy and Alec accidentally becoming engaged to a forensic pathologist who worked in St Bart's Hospital. Q had of course been sent to extract them and minimize collateral damage. He had looked with withering scorn at both 00s, shaken his head and calmly dealt with their problems. It was at this point Bond realized the full extent of his dilemma. Somehow he had not only grown to like the man, but also to like being liked by him in return. Q mattered to Bond in some way which made Bond deeply nervous.

Never had Bond found himself more glad to learn that terrorists had stolen a ship full of unstable nuclear material. This would have been nicely diverting for Bond, a charming mini-break of a mission. But with the efficiency for which the British Civil Service is known, another government department managed to get itself involved. As it was, James had the pleasure of hearing his quartermaster lose his temper in an epic fashion at some other smooth voice toff because he, James had been shot ,due to, as Q saw it, smooth voice toff's utter stupidity. It had been immensely heartening to James , and convinced him that maybe the solution to the Q problem was in fact much simpler than he had previously suspected. James was in fact now pretty sure what he was going to do about and to Q when he returned from the mission. Q's disappearance before Bond returned to England severely crimped that plan. Q branch 's best and brightest had so far failed to find the missing Quartermaster. Bond helped by prowled through the labs glaring at the luckless minions, hoping to inspire them in their search. On day 15 of his plan Bond was derailed by an unexpected tranquilizer dart to the neck as he walked into the labs.  
He pulled the dart out and spun to face his attacker. God damn it, he was groggy already. Alec, Eve and Danielle stood before him, Eve looked amused, Danielle looked disapproving and Alec, dart gun in hand grinned rather manically at him.  
'Intervention!' 006 sang out cheerfully as James slid to the floor and into unconsciousness.

*  
John is dreaming about Sherlock again. Sherlock is falling, his coat billowing out around him. Miraculously this time John makes it through the crowd and he is kneeling by Sherlock, his hands cradling that smashed skull holding it together.

' Why ' he asks him as his friend's brain oozes out between his fingers . ' Why didn't you let me help Sherlock? '

And Sherlock impossibly turns his storm coloured eyes toward him and moves that shattered jaw to speak.

' I don't have friends John ' he says. He looks on dispassionately as John cries ' Sentiment ' he notes dryly and turns way.


	5. We need a bigger boat

.

John is having a bad day. Last night dreams have left him restless but tired . Gwen has been talking for hours . She has been telling John innumerable stories about people and aliens Jack has slept with intercut with stories of the old Torchwood team. John is not sure why these topics have fixated Gwen today but he feels sure that some point is being made and honestly he doesn't give a fuck what it is. To his relief , mid –afternoon Jack and Q arrive back at the hub. Jack has been engaged in negotiations with the colony of Merfolk who have set up home in Cardiff Bay and some how Q managed to fall off of the boat and in to the water . John has never seen anyone wetter. And although the water may technically be clean, John is pretty sure falling in it , is not healthy for anyone and drags Q into the medical bay.

' Into the showers now' John orders ' I'll get you some new clothes. '

Q drips off to the medical bay's decontamination shower; John can hear him above the water, cursing all over excitable merpeople.

There are plenty of clean clothes in the big cupboard and John has no problems fishing out things that he thinks will fit. Hot tea will help John thinks and grabs some from the kitchen. By the time he is back Q is sitting on one of the examination tables wrapped in several towels, cleaner but still shivering. John frowns. Q is thin, too thin John should have noticed before. He is not slim or wiry but over - stretched, worn . There is an ill at ease quality to him. It speaks of more than just lack of concern about his physical health Q John realizes as he really looks at him, is not happy. Q is secretive and John has been content to maintain that famous British reserve. But now watching this too thin man-child shivering in his lab, he really wishes he had pushed it, reached out to Q. He hands over the clothes and Q excuses himself to change into them. When Q appeared he looked drier and cleaner , but still pinched , John ma d es a quick decision in his capacity as medical officer.

' Right . Pub ' he says ' I'm buying you a pint. '

' Oh god yes ' Q breathes likes he's just been offered a place in the last bus out of hell. He moves to pick up his coat, which oozes soggy under his hand. John sniggers at the look on his face.

' Your coat is going to be damp for days. Take the one hanging up by the door . ' John took a few minutes to tidy up after himself.

'Are you sure John?' Q asks. John turns. Q is stroking the sleeve of the coat like it's a living thing. 'This is a beautiful coat.' He sounds a little awed by it

'Isn't it' John smiles 'a very well cut coat indeed. Yes, wear it . In fact ' , he decides 'keep it ,if you want too.' Q quirks his eyebrow questioningly. 'Really ' says John' I'm never going to wear it and, well things should be used don't you think? '

Q is looking at him eyes a little wide, John gives him an encouraging smile.

'' I'd like to see it being used by someone Q , really ' he reiterates

Q runs his long fingers over the buttons.

'I'll give Jack a run for his money in this' he says

'You will' John agrees 'but Q ... 'the younger man looks up from his petting of the coat. 'Try to keep the coat posing to a minimum eh? Jack does enough for all of us.'

Q smiles at him, a gleeful smile.

'Thank you John' he swings the coat on , preening a little. John is amused to see Q instinctively turn up the collar; he shakes his head,

'Come on, pub.' he calls.

By his third pint, Q's face looks a better colour and the over wound quality of his body language has loosed. He relaxes against the padded seat as he waves his hands around. Q is excited about the ' real world applications ' of a recent discovered piece of kit .He is talking about using some off the technology to produce a handheld version of something or other that could give a field agent something akin to a pen size flame thrower. John is pretty sure he's never going to need a pen size flame thrower but Q seems taken with the idea so he nods along seriously.

' God, what Alec wouldn't do to get his hands on that ' Q says.

' Mm ' John agrees . Q never mentions anyone from his life before so John keeps quiet and lets him talk

' I'll have to find something for James ' Q muses himself ' he'll sulk if Alec gets something new and he doesn't . Maybe some kind cloaking device, yeah. '

Q 's fingers are twitching and John recognises in his mannerism Sherlock shifting his way through his memory palace . Q it appears has some kind of virtual lab for the creation of outlandish inventions. It makes John smile at him fondly. But Q has jolted himself out of his daydream, he sighs and drains his pint , looks lost and so very young that John's heart breaks a little for him

' I miss … them ' he murmers not looking at John

' You know , Jack would let you go back if you wanted . ' John says

Q stares into his glass

' He probably wouldn't even have to retcon you . Your knowledge is too valuable to him. ' Q says nothing but continues to slump over the table. John leans forward and puts his hand on Q's arm

' Q? ' he says softly "What can I do to help? "

The sigh Q lets out is deep and broken.

' I just miss before ' he says

' Before? '

' My life before this ' Q explains , ' Don't get me wrong , I love this . G od the tec ' John . T he things I could do with the tec in a real world situation. But this isn't , is it ? Not the real world , I mean . T his is all aliens and unthinkable dangers. And reactive, they threaten, we react. I feel out of it here, trying to catch up. Before … before I was the one they tried to catch up with , and we were proactive , important . I miss that. I miss ... I miss my friends. I miss ...'

Q trailed off. He misses someone in particular John thought, someone important to him.

' I'm sure Jack would release you if you wanted to go back. ' John reitrates

Q grimaces ' Jack would yes . Jack isn't the problem. Jack saved me. But I can't go back; if I go back I'll put them all in danger. '

' How ?' John asks ' you're a good man Q . I don't believe you'd harm anyone. '

' I won't ' Q agrees ' It's that pompous arse in Whitehall , that's the problem . He wouldn't let me come back. '

Now John knew Whitehall is full of pompous arses but why do his thoughts automatically swing to one particular pompous arse?

' Do you mean Mycroft Holmes ? ' he asks ' Did you fall foul of Mycroft, Q ? '

The sudden startled look Q gives him is enough to confirm the hunch

Now it's John turn to sigh

' Oh hell , what did Mycroft do to you Q ? It's alright I've meet Mycroft I know he's a … ' John struggles for a word to properly describe Mycroft Holmes

' A complete bastard ' Q offers

' Yeah ' John agrees ' yes he is. '

In the office of that complete bastard, Eve Moneypenny shifts onward on the edge of her desk and subtly flashes the deep v neck of her top. Trenneman from the IT department's eyes flicker down nervously and back up again quickly as he blushes. Eve smiles warmly at him.

' So tell me more about these IT problems Roy? ' She invites with a purr.

Moran arrives in Wales on a wet Wednesday morning. The G reat British Summer Time Moran thinks to himself, lovely. He takes himself on a recce of the city. Cardiff has changed since Moran arrived, the Bay area where he stumbled from the rift is now all bars and restaurants, art galleries and designer knick knacks . Moran growls to himself, he misses the honest warehouses and dishonest whores .Long past time to get off this planet , he thinks. Moran is about to call it a day and check into his hotel when something tickles his senses , his hunter sense . He scans the crowd and there turning the corner of the busy street are two silhouettes he recognizes. The scruff hair and ostentious coat of the detective and the shorter compact figure of the side kick are unmistakable even from the distance. But by the time Moran pushes his way through the crowd both Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson are gone.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

For most of May, Torchwood deals with a small but determined band of Autons who seem to have no real plan but causing chaos. Q coordinates from the hub whilst John, Jack and Gwen run around all over south Wales eyeing up rubbish bins suspiciously. John keeps his eye on Q, who continues to look sad when he thinks no one is watching him but smiles determinedly when he catches John's eye. He also keeps his eye on Jack. John tells himself this is because he is learning from the man, that he is keeping his eye on his work colleague and watching his back as needed. But the truth is, he is finding it increasingly difficult not to look at Jack. He finds himself drawn to the sense of stability that the man radiates. And Jack seems to seek out John's company too, partnering with him during stakeouts and visiting the medical bay when the paper work hangs too heavily on him. Their take-out nights last longer, John crashes on the sofa Jack keeps in his office more often and an easy affection fills their silences. And sometime John sees Jack look at him, a question in his eyes, but whatever it is, Jack never asks and John never pushes it. And for all of John's awareness of Jack, he still reacts too late. The world runs at half speed and John has time to see the child's plastic doll lurch stiffly from behind the bin, it's tiny hand peeling back and the laser firing a perfect shot straight between Jack's broad shoulders.

He is there before Jack hits the ground, a shot more reflective than aimed takes out the Tiny Tears shaped Auton but John still feels there is something wrong with his reactions. He is too slow still; his hands are warm with Jack's blood. Jack is telling him something, Gwen is yelling over the radio but John hears nothing but the rattle of Jack's lungs and his harsh breathing, sees nothing but blood staining the concrete, soaking into a thick woolen coat and a voice wails in his head- Not again! But yes again and despite John's frantic desperation, despite his pleading, Jack Harkness too dies under John Watson's hands.

But of course Jack comes back.

'I'm alright, John' he repeats ' I'm sorry I should have told you, I meant to tell you but when is the right time for hey I'm an alien and incidentally pretty much immortal too? I should have told you. I'm so sorry I didn't.' he repeats.

And yes, thinks John, you should have. And he wants to be angry, want to be cold and dismissive of this miracle but his body has it's own thoughts and somehow his hand has wound its around the back of Harkness' neck and dragged him forward and up whilst he moves his head down and…oh yes, that

John Watson has never kissed a man before. But it is, he decides strangely comfortable. Is it kissing men in general he wonders or maybe it's kissing Jack? He has after all never felt the need to kiss any other man. Jack moves his arm cautiously; hand in the small of John's back to press him in a little closer. And that, the feel of Jack's body so close, isn't anything as boring as comfortable but it is strange and good. John moves his other hand from Jack's arm, sliding his hand to Jack's waist then releases the death grip on the collar of his coat to thread his fingers into the soft hair at his nape. The panic fades, and instead this feels warm, affectionate. He can feel Jack smiling into his mouth. And John smiles in answer. The kiss finishes sweetly, no-one pulls away, and it just ends in its own good time. John waits for a rush of second guessing and regret to flood his mind but it doesn't come. He can't bring himself to regret the kiss, in fact John want to cherish it, replay it in his mind and then if Jack is ok with it, do it again. Jack is looking up at him. There is wariness in his eye, despite the smile on his lips.

'You can totally claim it was sex pollen, if you want you know,' he says. Seeing John's confused look he continues, 'we can say it was some weird alien love potion and never speak of it again. It's happened before.'

John frowns,' Jack what are you talking about?'

His voice is steady, his tone is calm.

Jack shrugs 'We can pretend, if you feel uncomfortable now. I don't want you to feel different around me, so if you want to, you know, claim involuntary biological response we can totally call it that.'

'You're giving me an out? 'John asks. Jack shrugs again and tries to look unconcerned. John can feel Jack's body tensing, preparing to stand up from his position on the pavement, giving John the space Jack thinks he needs. John sits back and lets Jack move. He rises to stand with him keeping his hand on the other man's arm. Standing there isn't much of a height difference so John has only to turn his head slightly.

'You are an idiot' John says and moves in for another go. John Watson has never kissed a man before, but he picks it up surprisingly quickly.

'Well I don't think it's very hygienic is all' says Gwen to Q' I meant that's the medical bay, you can't be carrying on like that in a medical area.'

She flicks her hair and glares across the hub through the open door of the medical bay.

'Hmmm' Q hums , a quick glace shows him a view of John at his desk pointing at the screen , clearly trying to explain something to Jack who is crouched beside him , arm over his shoulder and his lips on Watson' neck. John is laughing.

Beside him can hear Gwen drag in a breath, she has been droning on for twenty minutes and is clearly bracing herself to go on for another twenty.

'Gwen 'Q keeps his voice mild 'you know even if he wasn't crazy about John, Jack would never feel that way about you don't you? He just doesn't really fancy you' he explains

Beside him, Gwen Cooper grinds to a halt; her mouth hangs open just a little bit.

Q smiled sympathetically

'I can make you a cup of tea if you want he offers' and pats her on the shoulder.

It is early June when a man looks straight into the lens of a very well hidden camera and raises an eyebrow impatiently. The face is gaunt, the hair convict shorn, the walk hints at serious damage to the left hand side of his body. But the biometric program linked to the camera sends an alert to a super secure government address, a well trained minion runs down a corridor where no-one ever runs and Mycroft Holmes finds himself looking into the face of his dead brother.

Within the hour Sherlock is on a plane heading to England. He's washed and has changed his clothes but Mycroft still barely recognizes him when he meets him at the small airfield. He opens his mouth to say something coolly ironic about Sherlock's resurrection as his brother walks toward him from the plane. Sherlock is however still moving, stalking past him. The first thing he hears from his brother a year after his death is a savagely barked question

'Where the hell is John, Mycroft?'


End file.
